May Our Fates Intertwine
by C.J.Ellison
Summary: It is a fairytale of love and mortality, simple and sad and sweet. True happy endings are hard to find beyond the lines of a story- but sometimes fate is kind, and sometimes lost things find their way back home. [Implied Yato/Hiyori]


_For Askia_

* * *

It happened long ago. No one quite knows when, or where. No one can remember, anymore. But they remember the story, even if the details are gone.

It takes place under open skies, surrounded by deep wild forest, a river cleaving through its heart. The town was large and prosperous in its day, full of life and trading for miles around. And in this town lived an apothecary's daughter.

She was very pretty- some called her beautiful, and were not wrong- and hardworking, and brave, and unreservedly kind. She helped her father collect herbs for medicines, and helped her mother grind poultices and cures, and delivered them to those in need of them. The townspeople trusted the apothecary. They liked his wife, and they respected his daughter- the wealthy would sometimes even come from other villages just to purchase their concoctions. Their life was by no means comfortable, but their lives were as good and simple and free from calamity as any could pray for, and content besides.

But then, a dark shadow fell upon the town. It seeped into the town in dark storm clouds that seemed to blot the sun. Powerful denizens and local pariahs, wealthy merchants and humble rice-farmers, scholars and servants alike; they were found on the streets and in their homes and in the woods, felled by a skilled and merciless blade, cut down seemingly at random. The darkness was nomadic, ebbing at times, but always flowing back, never completely gone, unpredictable and indiscriminate. Some blamed thieves and bandits for the chaos. Others blamed the stirrings of unrest and the threat of war. And others still blamed the incident upon gods of calamity. Gods, so it was said, who would hear any prayer addressed to them, no matter its nature. But their speciality was the wreaking of death, destruction and revenge- for they could tear down entire armies, and might rend the depths of hell from earth if asked, or raze heaven from the very skies. No one was exempt from the destruction and tragedy they wrought. All except- one.

It was the apothecary's daughter.

 _The skies were a shroud of iron and pale grey cloud. The streets were slickened stone and paths of thickening mud, the river's surface churning like liquid silver, the tiled roofs hissing with a ceiling of rain. The air was inundated with a hollow, bone-deep chill._

 _The sleet did little to impair his vision. Cold water seeped through the thin black linen of his yukata, leaving ink-coloured hair gleaming and trickling with rivulets of rain, his flesh wet. From within the crooked branches of a maple tree, half-shielded by its canopy of leaves, raindrops like needles dripping around him, he watched patiently._

 _He heard the swift clack of her wooden sandals on the paving slabs as she approached. He looked up._

 _She was making another delivery, heedless of the bitter cold and ice-laced rain, rushing through the downpour. Several jars, wrapped into a secure bundle with a length of rough fabric, were pressed to her chest. She was hardly a princess- her slender fingers were roughened by work, the clothes she wore far from fine, and she had no natural aura of majesty and grace that came with high birth- but she still possessed a beauty that could not be bought by any quantity of elaborate silks. She was as delicate and vibrant as a young blossom, fragile as mountain mists and sea spray, full of fire. He did not know her name. He did not care. He knew her smile and her tears and her passion, and that was enough._

 _She briefly took shelter underneath the tree, gasping, pausing to wring the water from her long hair, wet and dark and glossy from the rain. Gathering up the loose strands as best she could, she twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head rammed the pin that had come loose back through it, fingers lingering to ensure it held. Leaning back against the trunk of the tree, she looked out at the rain for a long moment._

 _Her shoulders were tense, as though she could feel his blue, blue eyes on her. Yet she did not look up. She did not shudder. As though, impossibly, she knew that she had nothing to fear._

 _She did not linger for long- she never did- and soon hurried onwards, back into the rain._

 _He followed._

 _The house whose door she halted at was one of her regular calls; it was the mother of the household, he had heard, who was of a weak constitution and often fell ill. Her knock at the door was answered promptly, and the bundle of precious medicines accepted by the young son with gratitude. She was invited inside, but politely declined, backing into the rain with a wave of her hand and shivering smile as the heavy door slid shut with a clatter._

 _Mud sloshed underfoot as she hurried away, a stumbling shadow, ungainly in the downpour._

 _He watched, and did not touch the inert blade at his back._

Calamity would not touch her, in the way that mud does not stain the petals of a lotus blossom. She was close to the realm of spirits, walking upon the knife edge between the domains of the living and the dead. After a time, some said that she was divine; many thought she was favoured by the gods. And although her family had little to offer as a dowry- and it was suggested time and again that she might become a shrine maiden, for her sensitivity to the realm beyond life was rare, and few would have been better suited service to the gods- suitors came for the blessed apothecary's daughter.

Finally, her father married her to a wealthy merchant. Her husband took her far, far away, to a vast manor estate and an army of servants, where he showered her with rich foods and heavy jewels and rare pets, locking her up like a canary in a gilded cage. She was the crowning jewel of his collection, an ornamental wife, perfect and untouched and the envy of any woman of the class of her birth. But while grateful for his gifts, the former apothecary's daughter who had become a merchant's wife was uninterested by the riches of material wealth, instead longing for the vibrancy of natural things. She asked for a garden of stone and green and water, a courtyard under the skies and stars, and a fruit orchard. She spent her days amongst in the sun and rain and snow, tending to her gardens while her husband was away, learning more of her former craft, making medicines for her household when they fell ill. And so she was content enough, for while her marriage was without love, and the townspeople were wary of her, she loved and was loved in return by her servants.

But it did not last. Calamity followed her. As ever, it did not touch her- it _would_ not touch her. But those around her suffered. Those who cheated her, those who wronged her, those who attempted to use her kind heart for their own gain- they were felled by the same cold steel blade, the same that had watered the stone and soil of the town of her birth with blood. Cruel rumours began to seep up around the merchant's wife, poison accusations that she was responsible, that she had turned the gods against them and angered the heavens. She prayed for the people, asking for her blessing to become theirs, but nothing helped. And so, one day, when her husband was found dead by the nameless swordsman's hand, she emerged from behind the walls of the manor where her loyal servants had sealed her up and addressed the town. She told them to flee to safety, and that she would remain behind to battle whatever curse she had unknowingly bought upon them. She stripped the mansion of its wealth and distributed amongst the townspeople, and the village was emptied. She alone stayed, and faced her fate.

For three nights, she waited. And on the day of the third dawn, he came to her: a young wandering god with eyes of blue frost, his name in no shrine yet built, lethal with a blade and steeped in blood and battle.

 _The katana was fine forged steel- crafted by human hands, lifeless, sharp enough to draw cuts as fine as a strand of hair and deep as bone- with an ebony sheath that was lacquered to the appearance of cut and polished onyx, the same shade as his hair. Its edge was laid against the column of her throat, against her rapid pulse, a glimmer of perfumed salt sliding from her skin and onto the honed metal._

 _The great gates of the house had been left wide open for his arrival, almost welcoming him. It was an odd move, but knowing the one who had ordered it, he was unsurprised- even years later, she did not fear him. He had entered the manor and found her waiting for him at the top of the staircase, her dark hair twisted back and studded with pins and ornate combs of pearls and jade and silver cut to mimic flowers, wearing a beautiful ivory kimono that was spun as fluid as water, a golden obi tying it loosely against her form, the translucent crimson under-robe fluttering like billows of blood in water- a defiant inferno in her eyes, blade in hand, prepared to fight and die at the hands of a god. She had fought him fiercely; the hollow shell of the manor was riddled with the marks of their engagement, wood scarred and splintered and rice-paper screens torn open by their swords, carving through the chambers. Her skill had been unexpected, but he was still leagues better._

 _She stared up at him without fear, her chest heaving from exertion, disarmed, but without a single mark on her. Her silks spilled around her, making her radiant, tresses unravelling from the pins in her hair. The autumnal wind cut across him, cool and crisp and clear as the skies, sweeping in through the hollow left from one of the sliding doors that had been obliterated in their duel. He did not move._

 _The silence seemed to last a short eternity._

" _Who are you?"_

 _He shifted, his blade unintentionally teasing her throat, and she tensed._

" _A god of calamity," he answered her on cold reflex, his eyes sharpening into ice. "A deity of blood and vengeance, without boundaries, feared and despised."_

 _Her expression did not change, as though his reply was one she had half-expected._

" _There was nothing you could have done," he told her simply. "Nothing."_

 _She seemed to realise what he meant, something giving way inside her at the revelation that seemed akin to grim relief. "A god without boundaries?"_

" _I grant any wish put to me." He intoned._

"Any _wish?" She asked quietly. She hesitated, eyes gazing into his questioningly. "Then- then does that mean if I were to-?"_

 _He paused. Slowly, he lowered his blade and saw her relax infinitesimally, and held out the opposite hand._

" _Tribute."_

 _She stared back at him, uncomprehending, before her eyes flashed with realisation._

" _Oh! Ah- please, one moment- I think- I might still-"_

 _She gathered herself up and darted away with a snap of fabric, searching through the empty drawers and cupboards, nudging aside debris, her fingers shaking, her movements tainted with fear despite her previous irreverence. He watched and waited patiently until she gave a triumphant cry, returning to him with a small coin between her forefinger and thumb, held close to her heart._

 _Her eyes were apprehensive as she wavered before him, toying with the coin between her fingers, turning it over, the flat metal flashing._

" _Well?" He prompted._

 _Finally, she held it out to him, squaring her shoulders._

" _I-I- I wish- I wish for you to do something for which you could never be feared or despised."_

 _He stared at her for the longest moment._

 _Never had he received a wish like that- and anyone else in her position would have asked for their life to be spared- but then again, she was nothing like anything he had ever encountered before._

" _You did say_ any _wish," she added almost accusingly, holding out the coin still, the other hand clenched over her heart._

 _A smile ghosted across his mouth, and, with a flicker of hesitation, he sheathed his blade. She softened with surprise and uncertainty._

 _A god of calamity sheathing his blade for a mortal girl. It was a strange sight._

" _What is your name?"_

 _She blinked._

" _Akane."_

 _He stiffened. Akane._ Dark red. _Like the colour of fresh-spilt blood._

" _What an ugly name for a pretty girl," he commented._

 _She gaped at him, stuttering furiously for a moment, caught between indignity at the insult and flattery at the backhanded compliment. He found himself smirking at her._

 _Before she could find her tongue to say more, he took the coin, the metal warmed by her flesh. In one dextrous movement, he flipped the coin up in the air and caught it again effortlessly as it fell._

" _Your wish has been heard loud and clear."_

Many might have lost all heart when confronted by the errant merciless deity, and pled for mercy or hopelessly fled. But the merchant's widow met him on equal ground, daring even to take up arms and cross swords with the god. She was prepared to meet her end in challenging him, for she could not have expected anything less than death- and it is true that he bested her swiftly, his skill unmatched by mortal hands.

Yet rather than kill her where she lay, her weapon cast aside by his own, the god of calamity instead did something that none could have expected: he sheathed his blade, drawing not even a single drop of blood from her, and spoke with her. Why he did such a thing was beyond the wisest at the time. Perhaps she had earned his respect, refusing to hide and facing her death with the dignity of a true warrior; perhaps he was simply curious, to see what manner of soul would face divine combat with such fierce determination as was hers; perhaps he had reasons that the depths of his heart alone knew. But regardless, there he sat and talked with her, and slowly her fear faded. They spoke of a great many, too numerous to count; he asked her, first, where she might go afterwards- if she would seek out those who had scattered from the town and live amongst them, or whether she might return home to her beloved parents, or whether she might go to the family of her late husband, or remarry somewhere new. She answered no to each, and told him that her parents had died not long ago and that her husband had never spoken of kin- thus, she said, her ties with her life both before and after her marriage were severed and lost to her, and she felt she had no place left in her former lives- either that of an apothecary's daughter or a merchant's wife. She was no one's daughter or wife- only herself. And so, the young god asked her who she was, truly- a question never asked of her before- and they spoke as equals.

And, upon hearing her confess that she dreamed of somewhere that she might be finally free to live and love, the god made her a beautiful, impossible offer.

That sunset saw her spirited her away from the empty town, across the tiled spines of the roofs of vacant houses- and into deep dense woods where a great house lay forgotten, long unoccupied and unclaimed. It was damaged by neglect, by bird and beast and vine, water seeping into the cracks and making many rooms damp and rotting, but others were liveable, and sheltered fine furniture under coarse cotton sheeting. At the house's back was an overgrown ruinous garden, the wild thicket concealing a nearby deep freshwater stream marked only by the broken and rooted arch of a little bridge and the broken stone that had once guided its path, and a cluster of diseased trees of a dying orchard- one that, the god said, a former apothecary's daughter might hold the knowledge of how to coax back to life. And surely, a merchant's widow would know how to restore the great house and make it habitable once more.

And so the girl who was both and neither of these things wondered, a god at her side.

 _They sat underneath the glittering multitudes of stars, the night cool and clear, the heavens radiantly peaceful, the shoji doors of the room slid aside to admit the gentle breeze and the views of the once-garden beyond the porch. They ate the last of the rice and dried fish that had been left at the manor, from simple wooden bowls that had been left there. After he had bought her to the house, she had explored every room by the last of the light with him at her heels, steering her away where the floor looked weakest and forcing jammed doors and watching her wander, lifting sheets and gazing out across the acres of free workable land surrounding the house. At nightfall, he had gathered the last of her possessions from the empty manor and bought them to her. It was minimal- likely less, even, than she had owned before her marriage- wooden bowls, a cooking pot, utensils, three bedrolls- probably her former servants had insisted she take two more than strictly necessary, just in case- and the clothes she had worn to meet him. It was probably her finest kimono, so richly embroidered and crisp from lack of use, and each comb in her hair was doubtless worth more money than he had ever seen in his long life._

 _As the flames of the cooking fire reduced to embers, he wondered how to broach the subject with tact- it had never been his forte._

 _She shifted, and he spoke. "Be careful," he said. "There are splinters, and you wear a king's ransom in silk."_

 _She nodded, lowering her bowl. "I know." She paused, fingering the rich ivory thread at the hem of her sleeve. "I think that the kimono should be sold complete," she said thoughtfully, "but the combs separately- they will probably fetch more that way. None of them match, so it would be better to claim that each one is unique."_

 _He raised his eyebrows. "You do not mind."_

 _She shrugged. "I never needed such finery, even then. I expect I will need it even less now. Besides-" she smiled at him suddenly, "to speak the truth, it is horribly heavy."_

 _He found himself laughing quietly._

" _Well. Good riddance, then."_

 _Her laughter joined his wholeheartedly, and she toasted him with a cup of freshwater, taken from the spring and filtered through cotton. "Good riddance," she echoed, and he toasted her in return._

 _She shed her fine clothing before she clambered into her makeshift pallet of bedclothes and the makeshift tatami his quick, practiced fingers had somehow pieced together, keeping only the nearly-translucent under-kimono, red as blood. She let down her hair, folded up the silks, the obi atop the ivory like a stream of liquid honey and the combs and pins for her hair arranged in a crown over its embroidery, and slept, unafraid, moonlight spilling across her face and swirls of her hair._

 _The next morning, he came to her with an ox that pulled a small cart filled with sacks of dry rice and parcels of smoked fish, several simple calico yukatas for each season, sieves and brushes, bandages and pans, needles and thread, a metal tub and wooden buckets, a pack of bottles and neat blades and a pestle and mortar and scales- the seeds for her new life. The money that had gone unspent was in a heavy purse hidden in his sleeve, and when he found her waiting for him on the porch, the door open behind her- the breeze whipped at her dark hair, still loose down her back and slightly tangled from sleep, and the folds of her delicate under-kimono- he deftly removed it with the same hand and tossed to her. She caught it in both of her own with a satisfying_ chink _of shifting coins, gazing back at him questioningly._

" _Good morning," he answered it with a grin._

 _Realisation passed over her expression like a cloud passing over the sun- and she returned his smile with apprehensive but genuine warmth._

" _Oh. Um. Good morning."_

 _She suddenly laughed, and he raised an eyebrow in query._

 _Her eyes sparkled at him, brighter now than in the reflection of any jewel she had ever owned._

" _It- really_ is _a good morning."_

 _The wind gathered up the strands of his dark hair, and he smiled._

The skills of a god are many, and the girl knew well how to work hard and bear it gracefully, and so it was not long before the house rewarded their efforts. The rooms, though bare, were each restored, methodically scoured clean and repaired inch by inch, and the garden blossomed into its former glory once tamed and disease chased away by the girl's skilled fingers. By the third year, they did a heathy trade with surplus fruit, cordials and simple remedies at the nearby market town, and the old house and its orchard became known once more- this time for a lovely young mistress, generous with her smiles and fair but firm in her deals, and the strange, eerie young man with a sword at his back who was her shadow, seeming to slip in and out of existence.

The girl ought to have questioned why the young god stayed. She almost did, many times. But then he made her laugh, or said or did something that made her jab him in the ribs indignantly, or swept her off with him to places unknown for days at a time, deaf to her token protests- and she gladly forgot. She did not fear him, and never would again.

And so the god and the girl lived as equals.

Years passed, and the estate flourished. The orchard only became ever more beautiful and bountiful with the seasons and patient care, and the girl slowly began to ponder on the greater swathes of land surrounding her home that could provide so much more than the rich fruits of her garden- farmland, even, for the soil was so rich that it could easily support a few fields- two to be worked each year, while the other lay fallow. She resisted, however, until the god persuaded her to fill the empty rooms, cleverly tempting her by mentioning that she would easily be able to give a good life to those who had nowhere else. Unable to resist, she conceded, and soon the lower rooms of the house were cleaned and restocked and made comfortable for labourers. It began with two young men- barely past the threshold of childhood, brothers whose parents were dead- that the god had found, and bought to the house.

And so, slow as sunrise and the first patient trickles of water over rock, more came, and her kingdom grew. A woman several summers older than the girl and bearing many more days of calluses upon her fingertips came, and built and quietly tended a hearty vegetable patch. A starving mother and her tiny boy came, and kept the gardens clean and sculpted and flowering and filled with laughter. A man and his stooped, elderly father came, and gladly cultivated the girl's vague arrangement of apothecary herbs into a convenient garden with the precision of practiced botanists. A man and his wife came, and he easily toted heavy buckets of water and logs and mended the old well, while she kept fires burning and cooked delicious meals for the entire household with a tune on her lips. A desperate young woman in tears came, and at a loss but determined to help her, the girl gave her the task of laundry and mending and cleaning. Thus the household swelled. Little dwellings began to spring up around the great house, and there were patches of voices and company to be found on the estate once more. The girl found herself giving permission for land to be cleared and tilled for fields and a few cattle for the carts that took their produce to trade, and paying those who worked for her wages in gold rather than sustenance and cloth and warmth, and keeping books and wandering gardens and going to markets and creating complex extracts and bottling them up with neat labels. And all the while, the young god was at her side, cutting down evil spirits who tried to attack her haven.

She was a lady again, the girl realised. She had servants: girls who bickered over who was allowed to comb her hair, men who worked the fields and proudly brought in bushels of produce, women and children harvesting the fruit from in her garden that was now as much for profit as for pleasure. Ox-driven carts took goods grown on her land to market. She stocked the town nearby with her potions and remedies, from good common medicines to oils and waxes that made hair and skin smooth to touch. She was not nearly as rich as she had once been. Nothing she owned was nearly so fine as that which she had worn as a merchant's wife- her few garments of silk had been gifted to her by the young god, pieces that he bought for her on the excursions into town and presented to her with a flourish and a radiant grin. She was not weighed down with jewels and gold. And she was not lonely. A young god was her shadow, her greatest friend, her fiercest protector.

She held him close in her heart- and, strangely, could no longer imagine her existence without him, as though he were the crisp cool air in her lungs, the beauty of the night given form, shaking off the residue of starlight on his skin like water. Even so, for all her happiness, the girl did not understand the young god. Nor did she understand what she was to him- nor he to her.

 _The long, rhythmic strokes of the whetstone upon the sword calmed him, centring his mind, slowing the blood in his veins, the metallic sound bolstering him for what he had to do._

" _It is growing late," he said quietly. "You will strain your eyes."_

 _She ignored him, carefully sending a few measured drops of liquid into her mortar and continuing grinding. "You are still working. Why shouldn't I?"_

 _The rhythmic metallic sound of long strokes of whetstone upon a sword halted._

" _Because I am a_ god _. My eyes are better than yours."_

 _She rolled her eyes emphatically, pounding her pestle into the rough powder; it was a slow and tedious process, but she had told him many times that it was the difference between a fine paste and a grainy, useless sludge. She had two apprentices to assign such work to, but he knew she enjoyed the labour. They still duelled, steel kissing steel, keeping their skills honed. She never looked more alive than when her skin was slick with salt and her eyes were hot and focused._

" _I will be fine. I have worked in worse conditions than this."_

 _Something cut the air, a breath of a breeze on her skin, and something cold touched one side of her jaw. With a fearless sigh, she let the blunt edge of his blade guide her head up and turn to look at him, threads of her dark hair spilling over the bright sword. The weapon gleamed in the moonlight that flooded the room, illuminating him from behind, spilling light across her face._

" _Besides," she added with a warm smile, "I have you to scold me."_

 _He let his sword drop, his expression barely changing. She noticed immediately, however._

" _Yato?"_

 _A shiver slid down his spine, something pooling deep in his stomach at the sound of his name on her tongue._

" _You are leaving."_

 _He dropped his head, dark hair skimming over his eyes._

" _Why- why now?" She whispered. "What did I do wrong?"_

" _Nothing!" He burst out, the word sharp, wishing he could slice the thought apart like he did so many monsters and evil spirits. "Nothing at all, I promise you!"_

 _She usually would have hushed him, urged him not to wake anyone. "Then why?!"_

" _Because- you made me want to be better," he said exasperated. She drew up short, tears beading in the corners of her eyes still, confused. "I- all of this- everything- and you, it made me- I want-" The words were choking him. "I-I want-"_

 _His knuckles turned white, ice-blue eyes snapping shut._

 _He heard the clink of a bowl being set aside, and then there was a soft warm weight against him and wrapped around his shoulders, supple and strong, smelling of the soft natural perfume that clung to her from her work, her heart thrumming against his. He dragged her into his lap impulsively, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, nudging aside the collar of silk with his nose until he was pressed to bare skin, inhaling her. She was straddling him, her arms thrown around his neck to pull him close and her fingers delving into his black hair._

 _He felt her tears drip onto his neck, and leaned up to kiss them away from her cheeks._

" _I-"_

" _Hush," he commanded firmly, drawing her closer to him, feeling her hands shaking as one fell to the nape of his neck, the other clutching his shoulder. She pressed her forehead against his temple, obediently silent and trusting as he settled her around him, one hand kept braced at the small of her back so that she was held flush against him, the other tugging at the folds of her kimono until they parted and rode up over her legs, the fabric warmed from her flesh. She was motionless, her breath hitching slightly as his fingertips skimmed the skin of her thighs, settling her into the pile of cushions he was sat in the midst of._

" _I don't want to be the god I was when you met me," he said once satisfied, his mouth moving against her shoulder. "I want to be different."_

" _You are," she said gently, her lips dropping to his ear. "You did all of this."_

 _He gave a soft laugh. "I was fulfilling your wish. Do you remember?"_

" _Something for which you could never be feared or despised," she murmured._

 _He sighed, crushing her into him. She made no complaint, her fingers raking through his hair soothingly._

" _I want to be better," he whispered. "I want to be remembered- a-and- believed in- and a part of something better- and- I want-"_

 _She drew back, smiling with tears in her eyes. "I understand." She slid off his lap, landing in a mess of creased silk and long loose dark hair beside him. "I understand."_

 _He smoothed her hair back, memorising her face, and stood, walking as he had countless times before to the open window, swallowing his heart._

" _Wait!"_

 _He looked behind him. Her eyes were blazing._

" _Promise me that I will see you again."_

 _The god blinked, but softened._

" _I promise."_

" _Leave me a pledge."_

" _A- what?"_

" _A token of pledge. Collateral. Something of worth for me to hold that will guarantee you keep your word," she demanded._

 _He smirked. Years had passed, but he still saw the stubborn girl who had fought him in an abandoned manor._

" _Very well. Name your price," he replied calmly. "Any price."_

 _Her fingers twisted into the embroidered cushion covers, her eyes flicking away._

" _The cost of a kiss."_

 _His breath caught._

" _Wha- I-I-"_

" _You said any price," she said, her cheeks filled with a tint of high colour._

 _He couldn't reply. Instead, he simply took a few strides towards her, dropped to his knees, and took her face in his hands._

 _Her lips parted willingly under his, her hands wrapping around his wrists loosely as his fingers threaded through her satin hair, dipping her head back. She pressed up into him insistently, deepening the kiss, and made a soft, impossible noise in the back of her throat as his tongue slid over her lower lip coaxingly in response- he almost groaned when she let him in without hesitation. His body was shaking, hovering over her, but he kept his movements steady and sure, intoxicated and hoping beyond anything that she could never forget the moment._

 _When he felt her sigh flutter against his skin, he broke away, gasping, before he did something he would regret._

 _She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her eyes alight._

" _I will wait for eternity," she said quietly, her irises deep and sparkling._

 _The god closed his eyes, stroking his thumbs over her temples._

 _He should not let her promise such a thing- eternity was such a long time- but he was still so selfish, and time and circumstance had proven that he could deny her nothing that he also wanted._

" _May our fates intertwine," he breathed like a holy vow, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth in a final, irrevocable seal._

 _By the time the horizon was stained and streaked with rich warm pink blended with peach, fading like coloured chalk into pale blue, and the clouds were turning from violet to golden against the blue skies, he was gone._

But all things must pass. The young god was one day gone, and she left to tend to her estate where she lived many long years with a devoted family of servants and dependents, taking no husband and always- or so the legend goes- looking to the skies and horizon with sorrow, love and longing…

* * *

"What happened in the end?" The little girl whispered from her nest in her bedsheets, her eyes wide and worried.

Kanon Iki knelt by her daughter's bedside, cropped chestnut hair curling around her face and brushing against the crisp linen sheets, makeup smudged and fading, jewellery glinting in the shadows. The warm glow of the beaded lamp created a corner of tinted-gold in the darkness that swathed the large room in impenetrable black.

Kanon smiled sadly. "She died."

Hiyori gazed at her mother in disbelief and horror. "But the god- the god loved her, and she loved him! They _had_ to meet again- right?"

Kanon was quiet for a long moment, her eyes hazy and contemplative, the colour of smoke-tinted glass.

"Some say that they are bound by a vow- that the laws of heaven will bend for them so that they will meet once more- that the red thread that ties them together will survive beyond all things, beyond all sorrows and all separation." Kanon stroked Hiyori's hair gently, her voice dropping low and solemn. "There is _always_ hope for love, Hiyori."


End file.
